[Illustration:  The arrest.]

He was examined on several successive days, but persisted in his first story, although aware that his identity was known, and that the information had come from St. Petersburg.  His object was to force the authorities to confront him with those who had been accused on his account, that they might hear his confession and regulate their own accordingly.  One day a number of them were brought together—­some his real accomplices, others mere acquaintance.  After the usual routine of questions and denials, Piotrowski suddenly exclaimed in Polish, as one who can hold out no longer, “Well, then, yes!  I am no British subject, but a Pole of the Ukraine.  I emigrated after the revolution of 1831:  I came back because I could bear a life of exile no longer, and I only wished to breathe my native air.  I came under a false name, for I could not have come in my own.  I confided my secret to a few of my countrymen, and asked their aid and advice:  I had nothing else to ask or tell them.”

[Illustration:  Crossing the courtyard of the prison.]

The preliminary interrogatories concluded, he was sent for a more rigid examination to the fortress of Kiow.  He left Kamenitz early in January at midnight, under an escort of soldiers and police.  The town was dark and silent as they passed through the deserted streets, but he saw lights in the upper windows of several houses whose inmates had been implicated in his accusation.  Was it a mute farewell or the sign of vigils of anguish?  They traveled all night and part of the next day:  their first halt was at a great state prison, where Piotrowski was for the first time shut up in a cell.  He was suffering from the excitement through which he had been passing, from the furious speed of the journey, which had been also very rough, and from a slight concussion of the brain occasioned by one of the terrible jolts of the rude vehicle:  a physician saw him and ordered repose.  The long, dark, still hours of the night were gradually calming his nerves when he was disturbed by a distant sound, which he soon guessed to be the clanking of chains, followed by a chant in which many voices mingled.  It was Christmas Eve, old style, as still observed in some of the provinces, and the midnight chorus was singing an ancient Christmas hymn which every Polish child knows from the cradle.  For twelve years the dear familiar melody had not greeted his ears, and now he heard it sung by his captive fellow-countrymen in a Russian dungeon.

Two days later they set out again, and now he was chained hand and foot with heavy irons, rusty, and too small for his limbs.  The sleigh hurried on day and night with headlong haste:  it was upset, everybody was thrown out, the prisoner’s chain caught and he was dragged until he lost consciousness.  In this state he arrived at Kiow.  Here he was thrown into a cell six feet by five, almost dark and